In Your Dreams by Tom Holt, Tom Holt Page A

holding the satchel open, felt a very slight tug on his hands, as something he couldn’t see dropped into it. ‘Nine thousand and forty-one US dollars.’ Another tug. ‘Eighteen thousand, nine hundred and forty Swiss francs. Seventy-two thousand Tajikistani roubles. Nine hundred and sixty Bulgarian lev.’ And so on, through Moroccan dirhams and Haitian gourdes to Comoros francs and Korean won, wealth beyond the nightmares of avarice. The temptation to grab the satchel and run off with it was, however, no trouble at all to keep in check.
    â€˜Right,’ Mr Shumway said at last, ‘that’s the lot, thanks. Same time tomorrow, then.’
    â€˜Indeed.’ Mr Dao bowed graciously, then glanced quickly at Paul. ‘But perhaps, if you aren’t in too much of a hurry, you might care to stop for a cup of tea? Your friend—’
    Suddenly, Paul realised that he’d never felt so thirsty in all his life. A cup of tea, yes. He could really do with—
    â€˜No, thanks,’ Mr Shumway said abruptly. ‘Paul,’ he added, as if calling a dog to heel.
    â€˜But—’ Paul said; but Mr Dao was looking away, ever so slightly shamefaced. ‘My apologies,’ he was saying. ‘It won’t happen again.’
    Was that compassion on Mr Shumway’s face? ‘It’s all right,’ he muttered. ‘I understand. But we’d better go now.’
    â€˜Of course,’ Mr Dao said. He vanished, and the patch of dust with him. Mr Shumway breathed out slowly.
    â€˜Turn round,’ he said. ‘Gently does it. Now we’re going straight back. Follow me, and no looking back or talking. Don’t answer, just nod.’
    For some reason, it seemed to take twice as long to get back as it had to get there, wherever ‘there’ was. All the way, Paul kept his eyes fixed on the back of Mr Shumway’s head, as if it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen in his entire life. At times it seemed like they were both wading knee-deep through something heavy and sticky – toffee sauce or cake mix – and Mr Shumway’s progress gradually got slower and more laborious with every step. The memories raged in Paul’s head like a snowstorm, so many of them, all of them so hurt, so disappointed, angry, because he just walked on past them and wouldn’t even look them in the eye. He realised that he hadn’t taken a breath since they’d met Mr Dao; but he didn’t feel strained or uncomfortable. At last, Mr Shumway stopped, though Paul couldn’t see anything to stop for. He was panicking about that when a tall rectangular hole appeared in the darkness, and the savage brilliance of the shaded hundred-watt bulb in Mr Shumway’s office scorched him like a laser cannon.
    â€˜On balance,’ Mr Shumway said, closing the door behind them and leaning on it, ‘I think I preferred it when we used to use Nat West.’ He reached behind him and shot the top bolt. ‘But the BOTD’s long-term deposit rates are pretty much unbeatable, and their business-account charges are two per cent less.’ He turned round, supporting himself against the door frame with his left hand, and locked up.
    Paul managed to get as far as the desk before his knees gave way. His eyes were full of sweat, and now, suddenly, he was out of breath and freezing cold. ‘Mr Shumway,’ he said.
    â€˜Benny,’ Mr Shumway replied without looking round. ‘I guess you can call me that, after—’ He shrugged. ‘I got to do that every day, five days a week. You can see why, far as I’m concerned, dragons and vampires are a pleasant change.’
    â€˜Benny,’ Paul said. ‘That – man.’ Not the right word, but was there a right word to describe Mr Dao? All in all, he rather hoped there wasn’t. ‘When he offered me a cup of tea. What would’ve happened if I’d—?’
    Benny